Man of Dreaming
by SashaDaae
Summary: How did Christine and Erik cross paths? Did she stumble upon him, hiding in the wings after a gala? Did he spook her while she toured Box Five? Not at all, in fact, it all began with a simple dare, a childish dare...


Disclaimer: Nothing.

I haven't written a Phantom story in a while, and I feel it's time to get back into that groove. Also, has anyone heard the soundtrack yet for _Love Never Dies_? I'm not sure what to think of it yet, I was vehemently against a sequel, but I might just buy the soundtrack..hmmm…

__

I have never been one for stories.

Fairy tales are of no use to me; they are petty lies spun by pathetic beggars specifically to scare young children into obeying their manipulating parents. Nor do I enjoy tales from the Far East having to do with mystics and sufis- they are full of fallacies, as I tried to explain to the court of Mazanderan, but of course they only scoffed at the ignorant European.

An idiot may argue that my _Don Juan Triumphant_ is a story, but they are wrong, so very _wrong_! My destiny and Don Juans' are entwined, you see; we are one in the same, quite indistinguishable from one another. Of course Don Juan has a few more admirable characteristics than myself, but every biography contains a couple of embellishments here and there!

So one can imagine how appalled I am by the amount of rumors swirling around the Opera about me! That little Jammes- I believe that is her name, as I usually have no care for such things- does enjoy telling stories about ghostly apparitions at bedsides and the like. I've given her (along with the other Ballet Rats) a piece of my mind before- nothing too dreadful, mind you, just a couple of speeches from the darkness, funny lights, the sorts of things that frighten young girls- but of course that only strengthens their resolve.

I was stalking the orchestra pit, flipping through pages here and there out of boredom. In fact the Opera was quite empty that day- it was the holidays, you see, so many felt it would be a nice little time to leave for a few days before the galas began to pick up.

Imagine my surprise when I glanced up and saw a young girl in Box Five!

I had half a mind to do something to frighten her (as I was not wearing my mask- so much for feeling safe!), since it is my box and we ghosts are supposed to be rather territorial beings. But something made me pause- perhaps it was the expression on her face. It was marred with distress and sadness, and yet she must not have been more than twelve.

I hid myself further into the shadows. There was no way she could have seen me from my position, but slinking off into the darkness was a habit I'd grown into over the years. She stood there, absolutely frozen, before she sighed and looked over her shoulder.

"How long do I have to stay here?" even her young voice was tinged with the pain only a woman four times her age would know.

"As long as possible, Christine!" shrieked a young girl's voice, followed by a ripple of tittering. I shook my head and sighed just as she had moments before. They did this all the time with the newer girls; most of the time I did nothing, just let them stand there like the little dolts they grow to be.

Yet part of me wanted to give this girl her freedom, quickly- seeing as the longer she remained in the box, the more cruelties the little Rats would perform on her. I have no idea what made me do it, given my strict standards of appearances, yet when her delicate face was turned towards the stage I allowed my naked visage to flash for a mere couple of moments in the light before returning once more to precious darkness.

I heard her little gasp- not a scream of revulsion, as I had expected.

"Did you see him? Oh Christine, did you really?"

"What did he look like?"

"Horrible, dreadful, I can't even-"

"Just like a corpse!" one of the little rats said all too cheerfully. To give her a piece of my mind..."I've seen dead people, and he looks exactly the same!"

"Yes," the poor girl responded faintly, "just the same."

I doubted this Christine had ever seen a dead person. And I doubted that she had any care for these girls and their silly pranks. What she lives for, I don't know. Where her mother and father are, I haven't the slightest.

So I followed her to her room and listened to her nighttime prayers. I wanted to be certain she was all right, that they didn't torture her. I didn't want anything to do with her from that moment on, but I find myself coming back again and again, listening to her prayers to the Angel of Music. The Angel of Music, a fairy tale in and of itself...why do I listen to her pleas to a make believe being?

I come back every night, just to listen. Just to be sure this Angel is a fairy tale.


End file.
